


Chemistry

by class



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-13 06:42:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14743880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/class/pseuds/class
Summary: Jenga@2am, spontaneous coffee detours, st patricks day, pyromania & a wedding, michaels the craft store, it’s too hot for a conference, and prom confessions.A hot mess of Clexa one shots





	1. Jenga@2am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the same tumblr post: "it’s in a 2 AM game of jenga with your new college friends."

There's a hole in the wall boba shop slotted in the corner of Carey Court that is just oddly reminiscent of Portland. Lexa finds herself staring at the same minimalistic menu every Friday since its discovery and she knows there's some deliberate denial about the impending solidification of a certain unhealthy habit, but she really doesn't care. Because when that nostalgic feeling hits, it is impossible to stop it from consuming every fiber of her being.

It’s especially potent when Lexa ends up people-watching the steady flow of Californian natives that adore this 24-hour little niche. The two months she's been at this has surfaced some profound conclusions about the regulars which mainly just equates to the spectrum of uniqueness each person contributes to the communal space. 

Exhibit A: Raven looks nothing like how you would imagine brilliance, except it makes it more jarring to see the Latina surpass every stereotype of her with unparalleled ease. Sass in ample supply and brains to go with it.  She takes her boba without tapioca and tea stripped of sugar. No wonder she immediately clicks with Anya when they lock eyes from across the room.

Exhibit B: Lexa's best friend is the stoic personification of Mount Whitney. When the grandiose and challenging nature couples with relentless protective tendencies, it results in the slender dancer that could kill you merely from a death stare. Anya doesn't ever order anything besides bottled water which only sheds light to her particular diet, but Lexa knows it's a cover for her frugalness.

The demeanors couldn't possibly be more contrasting, yet in observing them interact, Lexa swells with a feeling akin to watching a solar eclipse occur. It takes about three weeks for them to start dating when Raven impatiently shatters Anya's plan of letting things naturally course. She takes the liberty of projecting interest through the grand gesture of a not-so-subtle make out session in the middle of the cafe. Second-hand embarrassment only amplifying when Anya responds with equal fervor, at which point Lexa is sure she's at the zoo, watching two hyenas go at it.

In a rash decision to just let them be, she moves to a table lining a different wall and doesn't interrupt them at all as they settle into an intimate _let's get to know each other_ session. Everything is seemingly fine until Lexa runs out of podcasts to listen to on her phone and she realizes that it's three in the morning. She has never stayed this late before. The only person left in the establishment besides them is a blonde in the corner with thick-rimmed glasses. 

The stranger is cozying up to a worn-out copy of _Little Women_ ; fingers sprayed across the front and back covers to grip it firmly in one hand as she sips from a mug of coffee. When she's caught staring the first time, Lexa averts eye contact haphazardly and ends up looking dumbly at her phone as a distraction. The second time it happens, she's sure her cheeks are a bright shade of pink, so she tries to focus on the news article about another earthquake in Japan. However, it only lasts five minutes and her gaze is drifting upwards until they're once again leveled on the woman across the room. What surprises Lexa this time is the most crushing grin she has ever seen and the subtle rattling of a Jenga box.

Lexa's eyebrows furrow to show some confusion. The self-defense mechanism is immediate because she needs to save herself from humiliation if she's about to infamously misunderstand again, except the silent mouthing of _do you want to play_ is quick to settle her rampant thoughts.

When Lexa sinks in the opposing arm chair, the stranger is first to broach introductions, "Before we bond over Jenga, I have to know if you're really good, like Olympic-level good, because my parents raised a sore loser and I'm not sure a brand-new relationship can withstand that kind of test."

She returns a tiny smirk, "I'm quite good, Clarke."

"How did you—" The blonde looks down at the small golden plaque pinned to her button-up, "..Right. The name tag."

There's a beat of silence where they return equally contagious glances, but Lexa is quick to note that Clarke has mildly poor patience and she attempts to mask her expression when Clarke concedes a moment later.

"Wouldn't it be fair to show me yours since I've shown you mine?"

Lexa crosses her legs and knots long fingers over her knees, "I can't have you believing life is fair, Clarke, but we can make a bet. If you win Jenga, I'll introduce myself. If you lose, you're just going to be okay with never knowing."

Clarke crinkles her nose, "That's boring."

"Then what do you suggest?"

"In the spirit of _fairness_ , I'll stipulate my condition and you make yours: if I win…”

She wants to chastise herself for leaning forward in anticipation, because it’s not Anya being the childish one here. 

“How about we just share a short story every time you pull a piece?”

“Mmm,” The words make Lexa flush, as much as she doesn’t want to. “Okay, but no questions.”

“That’s _fair_.”

* * *

Clarke allows Lexa the first move, which is more self-satisfying than chivalrous in regards to the newly added condition, but Lexa doesn't hesitate when she pulls a middle piece dead-center and says, "I had my first kiss when I was twelve with Anya."

Blue eyes dart behind her towards the only two people present before she purses her lips, biting back what Lexa assumes is a question. Clarke pulls an end piece near the bottom, "When I was sixteen, my boyfriend cheated on me. I found out that I was the other woman and I would be holding a long-standing grudge if it didn't forge my strong connection to Raven."

Lexa's eyes widen momentarily when the last word is said, forcing her to resist the desire to turn around. Instead, she pulls a piece diagonal from Clarke's and smiles, "For my twelfth birthday, I tagged along on a road trip to Portland and it was the first time I fell in love.”

Clarke begins silently mouthing the initial breath of a question, but she stops a second later. The blonde nibbles on her bottom lip anxiously, eventually her attention drifts back to the wooden blocks. She pulls the very bottom right piece before placing it on top, "My parents took me to Disneyland when I was six. Unfortunately, I got lost during the parade and started crying. This little girl came up to me in a cute Belle dress and offered a bite of her vanilla ice cream. When I told her I was lost, she said she would help me find my family and if she couldn't, she and her brother would welcome me into theirs."

It's when Clarke stops, at a point so spectacularly in the middle of nowhere, that causes Lexa to raise an eyebrow. Although, an unfortunate misnomer for Clarke's strategical prowess—to which her tiny grin gives away her every intent—is Lexa's unmatched competitiveness. _Olympic-level competitiveness_ that has been derived from years of diligent swimming that causes her to internalize a _you're so on_.

Her index and middle fingers balance the opposing block at the bottom, leaving a single middle piece as the foundation. She places it gently on top and lets a questionable smirk dawn across her face.

"My mother had always been against most of my decisions; it didn't particularly help our relationship when I told her I wanted to do something she in her life had never even imagined..." Lexa knows she's a bad person when she can see Clarke's fingernails digging into the leather chair, but the thought does nothing to subside her wholehearted smile as she continues, "So we lost contact and I got better and better at what I was doing until I was so lost inside that world that I had to take a step back and reexamine what I wanted to do with my life."

Clarke is on the verge of implosion. Her face is a deep crimson from the withheld pocket of air she can't even release without spilling out all the other words. And no. Lexa shouldn't be brimming with triumph over this, but she does anyway and it races down her spine with such a tantalizing chill. She postulates whether Clarke is running through explicit hobbies and careers rather than the traditional ones, like stripping instead of swimming. 

She expects a submission, but what Lexa gets instead is an exhale and a returned smile that reeks of _oh good one but it's not over_. The blonde pulls out another piece near the bottom, it takes a bit longer now since the wooden structure is threatened with a complete lack of a base, but Clarke eases the block to the top before placidly stating, “During my first week of college, I got a deadly case of shingles. It was actually awful.”

The chuckle escapes naturally. It must be easier for Lexa, considering the ease of friendships has probably been more gradual for her than Clarke, though the thought doesn’t linger and Lexa picks a side piece in the middle, “I have a cat named after an accident that happened when I was fifteen.”

They continue with the same agonizing stubbornness for at least ten more minutes.

“…My dad took me to Big Bear and it was my first-time skiing.”

“…Anya convinced me to get my first tattoo.”

At some point, it was a regurgitation of facts and not stories. The emotions drained from each addition as it added to the blank list of meaningless things about the stranger across from them. 

Lexa pulls on one of the few remaining blocks, two rows from the table. The structure is mostly raw and barren below the middle divider, but Lexa is not a loser so she extracts the piece with an acute concentration. She’s about to free it from the burden of the monstrous weight when, at the last moment, she moves the middle block in the row above with it and the whole thing crumbles onto the table, her lap, the floor. _Everywhere_.

Defeat engulfs her the same way it did when she lost her first relay. Except it feels more destructive now. More all-consuming. When her eyes dart from the mess, she notes that Clarke isn’t laughing. She’s not even really smiling. The corners of the blonde’s lips contort down in the tiniest of frowns. It takes a solid ten seconds for the expression to click as disappointment which makes no sense since Clarke won.

“Clarke…” Disappointment has shifted to sadness when she meets eyes as endless as the ocean and it causes something to gnaw in Lexa’s gut, “I’ll keep my end of the bargain, so let’s reintroduce ourselves.”

“You don’t have to, Lexa.”

She blinks, because that’s all she can manage to do.

“My shift always starts when you’re about to leave Fridays, but I come early sometimes. I people-watch too, except we call it being observant in the industry.”

“Of course, you’ve noticed.”

“Don’t worry. You’re quite subtle. I’m just better at it.”

“Clarke, admitting that you’re a better stalker isn’t necessarily praiseworthy.”

“You know what is though? When Octavia singlehandedly helped me find my parents in Disneyland. She kept screaming ‘Clarke’s daddy and mommy’ over and over until they heard her.”

A tiny smirk pulls at the corners of Lexa's lips, “I swim. Just to clarify. Competitively. Sort of what you would call _Olympic-level_. I’ll admit that it occurred to me how suggestive and vague my story was.”

Relief flushes across Clarke’s face, “Totally thought drug dealer. You don’t look like it at all which would make you the best one ever.”

“…I was going for stripper, but okay.”

Clarke shakes her head, “My R.A. saved my ass during that first week and we basically became really good friends. She invited me to her wedding last year.”

“My cat is named Patrick after Heath Ledger's arguably best role. He died when I was fifteen," Lexa shifts back into her seat.

The hand that lifts to cup Clarke's cheek only strengthen the way her eyes scream a _are you serious_ , “I’m not sure if I should be relieved or mortified that you made me feel horrible.”

“Probably both,” Lexa doesn't resist her small grin.

Clarke huffs out a breath before she elaborates, “The Big Bear thing was a good memory. I was dying from frostbite the whole trip basically and it was one of my fondest memories of my father. Though, I really have to know the what and where about your tattoo.”

“ _Tattoos_ ,” She stands abruptly, “Let’s save that story after our third Jenga date.”

The blonde exhales a low scoff, “You’re the worst.”

It takes another two Fridays, on their third Jenga date—by now, Raven and Anya have thankfully moved their relationship to more private places—for Lexa to make another mental addition.

Exhibit C: Clarke Griffin works the graveyard shift and somehow her sanity has remained intact. Tenacity, stubbornness, and a myriad of creeperesque traits bundle into the expressive boba master with an obsession for classic literature and horrible board games. She finds it ironic to drink hot coffee at a tapioca cafe, but Lexa knows she needs the caffeine. Or at least, Clarke did before they met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea how i managed to delete all of my one shots posted here ages ago, but i uncovered some more and will upload those along side all of these old ones. i'm sorry if you've read these one shots before, the new ones will be posted soon.


	2. Spontaneous Coffee Detours

_One._

Lexa has always loved the smell of coffee. The way it flares in her nostrils whenever she got a whiff of it in passing. The distinct aromas of regional blends, with which her love for travelling only intensified. The differences in flavor between the manner of brewing; French press always reigning superior above all others. So naturally, instinct found its calling when she was hired into the coffee connoisseur world as a lowly barista and climbed the corporate ladder ferociously until the busiest store in Polis welcomed her with open arms.

She is currently waging a war against her better judgement. There is a meeting with a potential investor in who-knows-how-many-hours—ten to be exact—and she really shouldn’t be manning the floor with a distracted state of mind. There has been no end to the scrutiny from the customers until she sees a cute child clutching onto his mother’s hand. Their order is taken with considerable care and she learns the child’s name is Aden before waving him off with a sweet smile, but what Lexa doesn’t expect is the complete contempt she receives from the next guest in line.

“Did you know that was child abuse?” The older woman begins.

“I’m sorry?” Lexa transfixes her gaze to meet the mid-forties suburban housewife that is pursing her lips.

“You neglected the child. I saw him looking at the pastry case while he was waiting, but you only spoke to the mom and ignored him. He’s obviously hungry.” The outraged woman crosses her arms and huffs out a breath of ridicule.

“Ma’am, there has been a misunderstanding. His mother let him order on his own: two slices of warmed banana nut bread and a cotton candy blended shake.” Lexa returns; she’s confused but her voice suggests nothing of the sort. She also stomaches the desire to tact on a not-that-it’s-any-of-your-business comment.

“You would think with the free college education that Grounds offers its workers that they would be instructed on proper etiquette with children. It’s like there’s no common sense at all. You let his mother just decide for him when he clearly wanted food. That’s neglect.” The woman slams her personal cup down onto the counter, “I want dark roast to the top.”

Lexa nods as she picks up the dirty reusable cup and turns to pour coffee from an urn. When the cup is halfway full, she hears a voice eclipse the sound of the blender in the background, probably making the cotton candy shake.

“Isn’t it a bit ironic to insult the manager for not having common sense, yet here you are blatantly patronizing her without being aware of the situation?”

Lexa doesn’t peer over to see who has rebuffed on her behalf, instead she savors the bitter gasp that the woman expels with perhaps too much satisfaction, “I’ve never been so insulted in my entire life! I was only looking out for the interest of the child she was disregarding!”

“You’re right, lecturing a worker who displayed astonishing kindness to the child about her shameless oversight of his needs is ‘looking out for his interests.’ My bad.”

Lexa turns to the woman who levels a look of disbelief on the contours of her various wrinkles and smiles as she sets down the drip, “It’s on the house, today. Have a good one.”

In possibly the most distasteful manner, the woman picks up her scorching hot coffee and launches it in the direction of a blonde who casually sidesteps it and grins as the coffee hits the tile floors.

Lexa’s eyes burn with anger as she raises her voice five octaves, “Your ill will with me is graciously accepted, but attacking my customers is not something I will tolerate. Please leave this store and do not ever return. I will be filing an incident report and if you decide to remain on the vicinity, the police will be notified in the next two minutes.”

The woman’s jaw drops and she glances between the multitudes of irises that she had garnered attention. Then just before Lexa is about to fully step in front of the blonde to shield her from whatever else is coming, the indignant woman turns around. Her cup sputters as it hits the ground and she doesn’t pick it up before storming out.

“Are you okay?” Lexa asks after she sees the indignant woman entering her car in the parking lot, flipping her off as she meets her glare.

The blonde lets out a laugh, resounding and wholehearted, “Are you okay?”

Delicate fingers lift to warmly grip Lexa’s bicep and in that single moment, she has never felt so reassured in her life.

Lexa meets soft blue eyes, “Let me sort out the current staffing and I will be right back. Please don’t leave.”

 

_Two._

Clarke has been cited on multiple occasions by her mother for her hotheaded personality. Her immediate retort always is where did she possibly get that from, but her mother responds with an eye roll before half-grinning. Like mother, like daughter.

She sits at one of the high rise tables of Grounds. It’s no way near the usual warmth that she is accustomed to in her local cafes, but nothing seems more daunting in familiarity than that of the manager who she had only known previously by name.

She has made herself comfortable by picking up the asshole’s discarded cup and decorating it with a sharpie. She sees Lexa clean up the mess in her peripheral vision after a huge man takes over on the till, but even then, the brunette is oddly graceful in a task as simple as mopping.

Some directives are spoken in an affirmative tone behind her and Clarke zones out as she makes hasty work of the nomadic scavenger logo that appears on all Grounds merchandise. It’s weird that the employees are nicknamed grounders and even more peculiar how they’ve monopolized the coffee industry in most of the world with an archaic mascot. But maybe now, she should be grateful for this gender-neutral icon. She tries to get the hair like what she imagines Lexa’s curls to look like when they’re not tied in a bun and she instinctively draws a shoulder guard and clad armor. Then before Clarke realizes, she is reaching into her purse to pull out the rest of her doodling supplies. The long sash that drapes behind the warrior is deep red and to prevent herself from overthinking it, she quickly dabs black war paint around the eyes of Lexa’s fierce face.

“She looks brutal,” A voice remarks.

Clarke turns to see the manager who has taken off her black apron and released her beautiful brown locks to hang freely.

“Thanks. This is Commander Lexa, named after no one in particular,” The blonde coughs and spins the cup around, “And her slightly less brave counterpart, Clarke.”

Lexa takes a seat and they momentarily meet gazes, “Lexa’s counterpart looks considerably more ruthless.”

Clarke widens a smile, “Well, Clarke is just fire with no flame while the commander is a force to be reckoned with, as that lady now knows.”

There’s a slight frown on Lexa’s delicate features, “I want to apologize. No one should have to go through having coffee thrown at them anywhere, but especially at my store.”

“Lexa, I provoked her. There’s nothing that happened that could be remotely blamed on you.”

“Even so, it never should have gotten to that point,” Her eyes trace Clarke’s jaw before she glances at the table, “Can I get you something to drink?”

Clarke blinks. It hasn’t even crossed her mind that she never even got the coffee, “What’s your favorite type?”

Lexa furrows her eyebrows for a millisecond before she replies, “There’s a dark drip named after its origin country, Sulawesi. It’s an island in Indonesia that cultivates distinct richness in its roast. Smooth, elegant, and slightly earthy.” The brunette lets herself get lost in talking, the subject flows so easily that she hardly dwells on the sentences for a millisecond before she strings along the next one. Clarke can’t help and stare.

“That sounds pleasant. I wouldn’t mind a cup of Sulewesi,” The moment the last word leaves her lips, Clarke braces the sting of regret.

“Si-loh-wes-si.”

“Sulawesi,” Clarke repeats. Perhaps at any other time, she would be offended at the correction, but her mother has taken it upon herself to get her daughter a respectable job and said daughter should behave appropriately in the company of professionals. Although, Clarke can already run through what Abby is going to say when she hears that her daughter also instigated a verbal dispute that escalated to the point of getting coffee thrown at her. 

Lexa offers a polite grin, “I’ll be right back.”

In less than three minutes, she returns with two regular cups.

“Allow me to make it up to you, Clarke,” She places them down with care before returning to her seat. “This is my business card. Please call me before you take any legal action, should you choose to do so. I won’t be offended. This is a gift card so you can return if you’d like and get coffee next time—undisturbed—but I also wrote down all the cafes with the specific brews I like throughout the city if you wanted different places to visit.”

Clarke hopes surprise is not the emotion plastering itself on her face. She hasn’t even met the thought of legal action and since the horrid woman has disappeared somewhere, she would be taking Grounds and Lexa to court. For what though? Clarke shakes her head, “I will not be pressing any charges.”

The smile is more heartfelt this time. It unearths from Lexa’s usual placidity and the way her eyelids shift to sit almost lazily on the forest green irises as she stares at Clarke is unnerving, “The first one is one of my favorite places.”

“I will have to make a mental note to take a detour,” Clarke picks up one of the cups and uncaps it. She inhales to soak in the aroma before sipping a small portion to coat her tongue. “This isn’t smooth or elegant, Commander.”

“That’s Yukon from a French press. It’s a mountainness blend more known for being subtle and fairly hearty. It reminds me of hiking when I was younger.” Lexa relaxes and claims the remaining cup.

“I don’t take you for an outdoors person,” Clarke savors the way she can imagine towering pine trees, cascading waterfalls, and a nature-bound Lexa trekking through the forest. 

“I still am, but it is more difficult to freely follow my desires with my current position.”

Clarke shifts in her chair, “Do you usually deal with that caliber of rudeness?”

“No. It never escalates to that degree. I’m usually very quick to put out the fires. It was however the first time anyone has undermined my ability to talk to children.” Lexa responds matter-of-factly.

The compliment expels itself instantly, “I watched you talk to Aden; it was nothing short of phenomenal. You’re really sweet with kids.”

“Thank you, Clarke.”

Clarke glances at her watch finally taking in the time, “Unfortunately, I have to go. Here is my business card if you need anything. It was nice meeting you, Lexa. I hope we will be able to see each other again, under better circumstances. Would you like to keep the cup?”

Lexa picks up the decorated plastic, “I wouldn’t mind. No one has ever drawn me before.”

“Thank you for the coffee. It probably tasted better because it was on the house. I’ll be sure to have a good one.”

Clarke breathes in the most genuine smile she has seen yet, “Mockery is not the product of a strong mind, Clarke.”

“And that’s why I’m your less brave counterpart,” Clarke flashes a final smirk before leaving.

 

_Three._

Lexa files the incident report only because she has too. There’s hardly anything to write so she allows herself a brief ten minutes to tuck it away in some corner of the historic computer and makes hasty work of catching her store up on everyday cleaning tasks. Lunch rush begins thirty minutes later and a tiny part of her is annoyed that the whole ordeal had taken as long as it did to resolve, but now she knows the name of her knight in shining armor—although someone of her standing should not be promoting antagonizing aggressive idiots into doing more moronic things.

Clarke Griffin. Her business card is void of any personality flare, instead it presents her phone number and email address in refined Helvetica before allowing the rest of the white to wash over your eyes. No company title. No occupation. No secondary contact number. There’s a moment during the heavy flow of busy bodies that Lexa realizes that she didn’t learn a single thing about Clarke during their entire exchange besides the observable features: expansive blue eyes that remind Lexa of the ocean, sun-kissed hair that make her think of dawn, kissable rose lips that just hint at something (or someone) buried deep within her subconscious, an impetuous personality that prods at her teenage self, and an artistic aptitude that counters all the other contradicting traits. _Clarke Griffin._ She repeats the name over and over in her head until she clocks out promptly at three in the afternoon.

She drives home to her shared loft. Her non-slip shoes are discarded as soon as she passes the threshold and she wiggles her toes, then Lexa huffs out, “Anya, I’m home” only to be met with the usual silence. She gradually unbuttons her shirt and expels an exasperated sigh. It’s been a long day, but Lexa still has the meeting with the investor in less than two hours. The shower feels as gratifying as seeing the livid woman leave earlier and Lexa allows herself just enough time to recuperate from the mental exhaustion of customer service, repeatedly whispering her new mantra like it was a war cry. _Clarke Griffin._

Titus is a towering man and it’s not an observation of his height. When Lexa returns a firm handshake after he waves her over from across the Hilton, she notes how she stands at an equal eye level to the intimidating—and bald—gentleman. But what’s immediately apparent to Lexa is shocks of self-inflated ego poking and prodding well past the confines of his outer shell to embellish his demeanor with his overtly nefarious intentions. She distrusts him within minutes.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Lexa Woods. I’ve heard incredible things about the rising star of Grounds,” The only thing Lexa seems to fixate on as Titus beckons her to sit down is the unkempt nature of his beard. 

She politely accepts the champagne that is offered, not bothering to question why coffee wasn’t the first option, “The pleasure is all mine.”

“Let’s me get to the point,” Titus folds his hands across the table as if he’s trying to magnify his presence, “I have intentions of buying Grounds…”

Never before has Lexa been disinterested in a conversation so quickly. She could make out a liar as soon as she saw one and Titus is the walking embodiment of a cliché fraud. If she hadn’t worked her way up from the literal pit, she might not have grown to be as insightful, but even poverty had its merits. However, her humble civility prevents her from interrupting him as he spews pointless drivel, the same way she didn’t interrupt the rude woman earlier in the day.

“I would like you to lead…”

Her eyes wander around the restaurant to take in her surroundings, if not for something to do, and she knows what she wants to see at this exact moment so she whispers it like a prayer. _Clarke Griffin._

Blonde is what her pupils finally rest on when she makes it to the far left corner. Blonde and brown, fingers and wrists, struggling and crashing, yelling and screaming. Then before Lexa can make a conscious decision to think through her choices, she’s sixteen again.

“Please excuse me, Titus,” She stands and paces across the room in her ironed blouse and slacks. The heads turning towards her are unparalleled to the amount from her store and Lexa feels almost weightless under the pressure. A devilish smirk streaks across her face as she reaches the table.

“Fucking let go of me Finn!” Clarke shrieks.

Lexa doesn’t make herself known before heaving a glass of cold water onto the unexpected man-child. The tight grip on Clarke’s wrist is released and as the blonde’s arm drops, Lexa sees the intensity of red.

Brown eyes reflectively pierce in her direction, “What the—“

Silence is the most potent reply; Lexa studies Clarke’s terrified face in an instant and intertwines their fingers. She ignores the two dozen spectators as she pulls Clarke to the exit.

Her car is parked so goddamn far and it feels like they’re sprinting for a while until the black Lexus rears into focus. They collapse in her SUV with only the sound of heavy heaving until Lexa remarks, “At least I didn’t toss hot coffee on him?”

Clarke shakes her head and laughs, “You probably should have.”

 

_Four._

Clarke wonders what divine intervention occurred for her to be saved in the manner of having an angel (almost) swoop her off her feet in the middle of a struggle, pull her hand to the exit, and take her to their car. Okay. Maybe she shouldn’t phrase it like that because it sounds illegal and equivalent to the signs of a kidnapping. But being rescued by Lexa Woods is nowhere close to a kidnapping unless it was one of those kinky-roleplay types of kidnappings in which case, Clarke is all aboard. Wait. What the fuck is she thinking? What happened to her professionalism? Did she leave it with Finn?

Lexa is still holding her hand and she’s driving her somewhere, but Clarke has made no inclinations that she cares where they go.

She simply squeezes the foreign and not foreign fingers—because Clarke is the epitome of intellect right now with the way her heart is racing at two hundred beats per minute—ever so often and she feels Lexa’s thumb caress it back.

When her breathing finally levels and her heartbeat isn’t crashing inside her eardrum, Clarke glances at the brunette who appears overly concentrated on driving. Perhaps Lexa isn’t the personification of self-control that Clarke assumes she is. She lets the fitting blazer distract her and the way the blouse circles up before it shows the goods—stop. She sinks further into the seat before feigning innocence, “Why did you save me?”

Lexa doesn’t look at her when she replies, “I did say I was going to make it up to you, Clarke.”

“But we just met. It looked like you were having a super serious business meeting.” _Shit._

Clarke spends too much time with her best friend, Raven—because she prepares for a smartass comment like ‘call the police, we have a stalker’ or ‘damn, princess, I didn’t know you were that obsessed with me’—but what she doesn’t expect is seeing the hand gripping the steering wheel to tighten just a bit and Lexa’s flat reply, “Oh. You saw that.”

“It’s none of my business,” She bites her inner bottom lip.

The brunette adorns a tiny grin, “That clearly has not stopped you before, Clarke. Yes, I was ‘having a super serious business meeting.’” The last part comes out with modest sarcasm and maybe if Clarke wasn’t use to the playful berating that was her normal conversations, she probably would be startled by Lexa’s use of empirical language.

She counters, “’Mockery is not the product of a strong mind.’”

“Neither of us have strong minds it seems.” Touché.

Clarke clutches Lexa’s hand once again, “I’m really sorry for interrupting something that looked important with my melodramatics.”

“Don’t apologize, Clarke. You saved me once again.” It sounds like an admission. Whole and complete.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re here.”

Clarke peeks outside the passenger window. They have stopped in front of a quaint café. The cursive chalkboard outside reads Polaris and there is a colorful list of their daily specials in outstretched calligraphy. Her mind flashes to the first place on the piece of paper written in Lexa’s adorable handwriting.

They sit down in the back corner and Clarke tries to not look too infatuated with the way the aroma of coffee blends so effortlessly with the smell of freshly baked pastries—or if denial wasn’t the current state that Clarke is faking, she can’t stop thinking about how she was rescued and instead of taking her home, or to Lexa’s apartment, her savior opted for a coffee shop. She is in so much trouble; Lexa Woods is going to be the death of her.

“Welcome back, commander! I see you brought a beautiful guest with you today,” A short, pale girl smiles as she hands Clarke a menu.

“Thank you, Maya. This is Clarke. She warded off an awful person on my behalf and she saved me in many other ways, so please get her whatever she wants.”

“I see! I greatly appreciate you preserving my favorite customer. This place wouldn’t survive without Lexa’s business. Also she is infinitely more knowledgeable about our menu than myself, but if you have any questions for me, please tap this buzzard on the side and I’ll be back within thirty seconds.”

Maya leaves the two alone and Clarke looks at the tiny doorbell-like button on the wall of their table that is so conspicuous she didn’t even notice, “Neat.”

Lexa smiles, “Costia, the previous owner, visited Korea and she loved the way most of the restaurants had a call bell at their tables. Of course, it was usually obnoxious and loud, but when she finally opened her own café, she implemented the same system without the obtrusive ring. It essentially buzzes the current staff who have retro pagers with a number for the table.”

“Holy shit, that’s pretty ingenious, but the café isn’t nearly as big as your store. Why would she need this?” 

“We went to a restaurant once—somewhere in Los Angeles so it should’ve been expected—but we couldn’t get our waiter’s attention for over forty minutes. I didn’t mind, because it takes as long as it takes and they were swamped. However, Costia didn’t want to spend my entire birthday sitting in a restaurant so we eventually left without even getting anything beyond our waters. She never wanted anyone to experience that here; she was innovative and considerate like that.”

“ _Was_? Did something happen to her?”

The brunette’s breath hitches for an infinitesimal amount of time and no one would ever notice, except Clarke is staring so deeply at the contours of Lexa’s perfect face that she is overtly gawking at this point, “About sixteen months ago, she was in a fatal car crash and died.” 

_Died._ Clarke inhales a shallow breath through her mouth and she dwells on the way Lexa said died and nothing along the sugarcoated lines of ‘she passed away,’ ‘she is not with us anymore,’ ‘she is in heaven,’ or even still, the way she deadpans the invariable truth as if the brunette has reached a plane beyond acceptance. Jake has been gone for a better part of her young adult life and she still wasn’t over the bitterness that sweeps over her whenever she sees her mother. Her dad was gone, he wasn’t dead.

Lexa leans back on her chair and points to something on the menu Clarke has been blatantly ignoring, “I apologize. That was cryptic. I recommend the lavender latte if you want something lighter than black coffee and a white chocolate scone. The espresso here is significantly better than my café which pulls over seven hundred shots per day on three machines, so quality isn’t the fundamental issue there.”

Clarke loses the battle against her intuition, so she asks in a half-whisper, “How did you move on?”

“I came to my senses. Love is weakness.”

 

_Five._

Somewhere between the glaring, staring, gawking, direct eyeing, whatever the hell Clarke is doing—and not subtly—Lexa is trying to read the myriad of emotions that is transpiring across the blonde’s range of expressions. Surprise. Delight. Intrigue. Joy. Shock. Envy. Dread? The placidity is transparent when it hits, because despite the overly emotional nature of the woman in front of her, Lexa can tell she has greater willpower than herself. Discipline when she calls for it and in a single flutter, the grimace on Clarke’s face is swallowed by a look of calmness.

“Love is weakness,” Clarke repeats.

Lexa takes the opportunity to lift Clarke’s index finger over to the buzzard and gently nurses pressure until the button dimly lights up. Maya reappears in a matter of seconds and Lexa orders on her behalf while the blonde remains silent, “We’ll have two medium lavender lattes, one with soy and one with whole milk. A white chocolate scone and a slice of pumpkin bread. To go. Thanks, Maya.”

She nods and gives Lexa a look, the look she knows too well, before disappearing once again.

“That guy at the hotel. His name is Finn.” Lexa doesn’t respond. Clarke’s scream is vivid in her memory.

“I ended it after I found out he was cheating. He has been harassing me for ages and I was telling him off today, but you know what happened.”

“Clarke, you deserve to be treated better.”

“I do, but you’re right. Love is weakness.” The tone is sincere.

“Have you ever been hiking before?”

“Hiking?”

“Hiking. Walking through dirt, gravel, and trails in the middle of nowhere.”

Clarke sighs and her insatiable smile returns, “Lexa, we’ve known each other for less than twelve hours. How did I possibly already rub off on you?”

If she is being honest, Lexa has no idea, “It’s a simple question.”

“I have. Once. I went to Niagara Falls with my dad before he…”

Lexa reaches for Clarke’s hand and she intertwines their fingers, “Go hiking with me.”

“This sounds like a setup. Are you planning to kill me in your woods?”

The manager internally decomposes, because the pun is so stupid. However, she is capable of being sappy and cheesy too, “Just with my charm.”

“It’s quite deadly.”

“Here you are, ladies. Is there anything else I can get for you?” Maya makes a poignant effort to look at Clarke when she reaches their table and gracefully places down their order.

“We’re good. You’ve been wonderful, Maya. I’ll make sure to come back often. Lexa’s store is not nearly as cozy and inviting.”

There’s an audible chuckle, “The commander’s store is just that—a store. She works for the enemy and we should be very careful of her motivations. Thank you for stopping by, Clarke. It was really nice to see Lexa entertain company.”

They return warm smiles.

“Okay. Fine. Let’s go on a hike,” Clarke meets Lexa’s gaze after Maya leaves, “By the way, how did you know I wanted whole milk?”

Lexa shifts, “It was just a good guess.”

“Or you’re a stalker and you are denying the fact that you looked me up on Facebook.”

 _Fucking Clarke Griffin._ Not literally. Maybe literally? In the future perhaps, when they didn’t just meet twelve hours ago and somehow fate has brought them together twice.

The blonde asks when they reach Lexa’s car, “Where are we going?”

“It depends on how much time you’re allowing me to abduct you,” Lexa surveys the way Clarke bites her bottom lip suddenly.

“I feel like you’re reading my mind, Lexa. Stop.” She casually pushes the brunette and Lexa thinks she’s nineteen again, learning how to flirt. “I don’t have work I particularly like going too and it also happens to be Friday so my boring office job isn’t the issue. Don’t you head the busiest coffee shop in the whole city?”

“I am paid on salary, so that’s not a problem.”

“So apparently all weekend.”

“Do you want to go to Niagara Falls, Clarke?”

Silence is the most potent answer, because the blonde’s expression fades from worry. Her eyes shut and Lexa allows Clarke the time she needs to think. Minutes pass and eventually the blonde opens her eyes again that gleam with a flicker of hope.

“If I’m concerned at all, it's not with the location, but with the fact that it's a seven-hour drive.”

Lexa earnestly smiles, “It’s good that we have coffee then.”

"Did you buy a Lexus because it's the closest thing to your name?" Clarke finally inquires as she pulls onto the street. Lexa can tell she's been debating the question since the hotel. Her GPS says six hours and forty-seven minutes left.

“Shh. Don’t tell anyone.”

“You’re a dork. I can’t do this. I will actually fall in love with you.”

“You haven’t already?”

“’ _Shh. Don’t tell anyone._ ’”

Perhaps love is not weakness.

 

_Six (Bonus)._

Perhaps Clarke should take a rain check on performing daily routines and going about her lackluster schedule of board meetings, butter-them-up lunches, and fake-happy-birthday phone calls. Everything. She really shouldn’t dwell on the little details if she was being honest with herself. They’re not remotely important. Who cares if the vicious cycle of her repetitive life was only broken when she decided to stalk the gorgeous woman she saw through the pane glass window of a coffee shop that Clarke had previously never entered. She wasn’t, isn’t, and probably won’t ever be a coffee person, but Clarke has merit as a good liar. So when she entered Grounds with zero respective knowledge and only an inkling to the name of the manager, she didn’t expect anything to flourish, not in the manner that it did, but everything after that must have been fate. Because who in their right mind is going to believe this story when she tells it?

Going to Niagara Falls with a strange woman within slightly less than thirteen hours of meeting her is probably considered a rain check. Mental and physical. Her mother would totally understand and if everything turns out for the best, her deceased corpse will be returned in relatively one piece, but really, the main issue isn’t the unlikely chance that Lexa is a serial killer. It’s the fact that she has spent such a negligible amount of time with this person and her brain is seemingly incapable of not short-circuiting in her presence.

Lexa has stopped the Lexus—should she nickname it Lexas or is that too much—to get gas and Clarke excuses herself to make a phone call to her best friend who she was supposed to see at dinner, but well, that’s not happening.

“Thank you for responding too fucking late. I had assumed the worst. O is probably breaking down your door right now.” The voice immediately chimes after the second ring.

“Hello to you too. I’m going to have to reschedule our dinner plans tonight.”

There’s a momentary pause before an eruptive oh! and Raven adds, “Does Griffin have a hot date? We can do tomorrow night and you can tell me all the juicy details. Or some of them. Or really, just spend time with me because I’m always busy as fuck and never get time off. Maybe I’ll need consoling for being replaced for a booty call.”

She winces at her own reply, “Can’t do tomorrow either.”

“Are you planning to drive to Canada or something?” Raven huffs.

Clarke stares at the stand of chips in the food mart. She doesn’t even know where they are, some gas station twenty or thirty miles outside of the city, “Technically yes?”

“Okay, Griffin, spill. You’ve been AWOL all day and I got a call from O who got a call from Bellamy who got a call from Finn about you storming off during lunch with some random ‘girl.’ There were a lot of phone calls about you, princess.”

“Her name is Lexa. Long story short. I stopped a rude as shit customer from berating her at her coffee shop, then the asshole almost dumped coffee on me. We talked after, but I had to leave. When I went to lunch with Finn later, it happened to be the same hotel where she was having a business meeting. Then he got grabby and Lexa intervened. So basically we’re heading to Niagara Falls now.”

“Back up, you’re missing where you thought this through.”

She picks up a bag of Hot Cheetos, “I have and I haven’t. As in, I thought about it for four minutes in her car when she asked and it was weird because she just sat there and let me think without interrupting.”

“So in all of the horror movies, that’s literally the—“

“Raven, she’s not a murderer because she’s patient. Just because you and O are the embodiment of let’s-do-shit-right-now.”

“I need more information about Lexa. Do you have a last name?”

“Woods. And she’s going to come up perfectly clean when you cyber-stalk her.” Clarke clutches the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she pays for a bag of Hot Cheetos, four Kind Bars, two Gatorades, and two Slim Jims. 

“We’ll see. Give me a few minutes.”

“I can’t. It looks like she finished pumping gas. Unless you want to meet her over the phone.”

There’s audible clicking of keys in the background, “I absolutely would love to meet Miss. Lexa Woods over the phone. Apparently the youngest manager in the entire history of Grounds at twenty-two.”

“She’s twenty-two?”

“Clarke. You didn’t even know her age and you’re going to a far far away waterfall with her? A waterfall that, I should add, is seven fucking hours north.”

Clarke slides the plastic bag under her arm and clutches her phone, “Actually, I don’t think we’re at that stage in our relationship yet. Just text me if you find out she was in jail for illegally hijacking a race car and going on a test drive.”

Raven scoffs, “You’re so funny, Griffin. Have a good time at Niagara Falls.”

“Bye. I love you.”

“I love you too. You better keep me updated or I’m sending O after your ass.”

When Clarke resettles in the car and Lexa pulls back onto the interstate, the blonde whips her head over to face the driver, “I forgot to ask! Why did Maya call you commander? I’m a bit sad that my nickname wasn’t original.”

“I use to help Costia run Polaris, but I was very obsessed with making sure the café ran well while Costia was always diligently attending to the needs of the customers and staff.”

“Good cop, bad cop. Got it.”

Lexa allows the silence to sit, so Clarke makes no attempts to hide her curiosity, “Not to be a killjoy, but I don’t have any hiking attire.”

She glances down at the white dress she was still wearing and the black stilettos on her feet, although Lexa isn’t faring any better. The brunette is in a pressed blazer, slacks, a fitted blouse, and three-inch heels. Clothes totally appropriate for conquering a mountain.

Lexa appears unfazed by the remark, “What size shoes do you wear?”

“I think you have to take me on a date first before asking such a personal question.”

“So good coffee isn’t considered a date?”

Clarke sinks in her seat, “I have a confession to make.”

“You don’t actually like coffee. I know.”

“You do?” The blonde raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, Clarke. The dumbfounded look on your face when I was talking about brews couldn’t have made it more apparent. You called the roasts ‘types.’”

“What? I did not look dumbfounded!”

“Or the way you didn’t respond when I recommended the lavender latte. Or the way you only sipped your coffee twice before running off. You didn’t have to lie to me, Clarke. You could have gotten tea; Grounds has a ridiculously long menu of drinks.”

“I didn’t—“ She begins to retort, but the brunette interrupts her.

“Why were you in my store today if you don’t like coffee?”

Clarke blurts out, “I’m a size seven.”

The brunette’s lips perk up in a warm smile, “Good. I have shoes in the trunk and before you ask, I’m an ‘outdoors person,’ so I keep gear in the trunk to do outdoor things.”

“’I have never been so offended in my life!’” She sarcastically states.


	3. St Patricks Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on toolateintheday's [ASOAE Chapter 9](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9216623/).
> 
> A mess of Clarke, Clarke, LA, and oh, Lexa. Previous reading not required, but go read it anyway.

If Clarke had the energy to despise any holiday at all, it would be St. Patrick’s Day. A holiday _not_ set aside as part of the ten federally allocated days a year to celebrate American prosperity; even the government realizes the lack of legitimacy in placing every holiday in the calendar year as time off. Because fuck productivity. It's definitely not due to an aversion to the color green or antagonism to another day purely under the umbrella of rationalized drunkenness (the get-out-of-the-jail-free card for getting shitfaced is always welcomed). It’s the fact that her coworkers are a bunch of prepubescent children from hell and their habitual plan of attack every single year on March 17th is to pinch, prod, and abuse every single person not saved by a cluster of hues on the color wheel.

Her thoughts have a tendency to recall the nightmarish beeline to her office this morning. Some Olympic-tier speed walking that doesn't quite fit in Clarke's arsenal of transferable skills. It's unfortunate that she only notices the muted blues lining the wall upon locking the door; she can't rationalize any coherency in thinking she had the right to an office in the first place: the cubical in the open space of floor seven that suffers from an inherent lack of privacy has been wonderfully saved for her and the other twenty employees in the department. The title _office_ might be entirely misleading, but calling it a cubical only cements the ebbing feeling that they're all kindergarteners getting trained in independence by first having a designated cubby.

The panic gradually sinks in at the same time a pair of faintly distracted eyes lift up from their fixed spot on the laptop, the only light illuminating the significant space that has been deemed Lexa’s office. At least, some personal effects have been added since her last visit: a picture frame positioned at a forty-five degree angle facing towards the subject, a meticulously tended orchid finds purchase of the desk estate towards the southern end, leather-bound chairs offset the neutral security of Lexa's clinical rigidity, and it's only for a moment, but the tiny peak at the self-help books lining her boss's back wall takes on some immediate prominence of attention. However, it always feels like a game of intensity and favors, because nothing tops the mossy green eyes boring into her soul when she chances ending the brief scan of her surroundings.

Clarke is impressed to find her composure the remaining mark of resilience when she manages to clear her throat. It's not nearly as awkward as she compartmentalizes in her head, but who really knows. Her heartbeat is eclipsing any reasonable rate in front of a slightly less unapproachable Lexa. They haven't talked about the almost kiss in the elevator and it's not due to another misunderstanding for once. Following Raven's train wreck disaster on timing, it would only be safe to say they have both taken the weekend to collect themselves. To untangle the state of affairs as pragmatically as possible, if only Clarke Griffin was capable of pragmatism.

"Yes, Clarke? How can I assist you today?"

There's an unpleasant little bite in the air, a ream of recoiled tension, but she can't differentiate between sexual and the other kinds. Her observant nature has been quickly squandered by the frantic realization post-parking that there's no green anywhere on her person. In normal circumstances, ghetto-fabulous Clarke would never traditionally allow such an obstacle to stop her from living her life—retrofitting a green sharpie to draw an iconic four leaf clover on her cheek is well within Clarke's capabilities—but she's been practicing her _professionalism_ following all of her heated tussles with a particular green-eyed corporate prodigy. Even still, this had only been the tip of the iceberg. The automatic glass doors that separates the polluted Los Angeles air from the triple-filtered A/C inside has always made her feel a little claustrophobic, but today of all days, Clarke walked into the lobby of Trikru Incorporated to the baffling stench of regret. The sympathetic frown that pulls on the corner of Roma's jaw does nothing to soothe the abrupt hitch of her vocal cords upon the initial impact.

Raven is first to find her. She knows better than to loiter for too long in reception, ever. But the overwhelming feeling just hit her so hard, only worsened by the pinch Raven inflicts on the back of her left arm that radiates down to her very core. The pain is electric and it courses through the subtle dips of conscious awareness until the sharp infliction is felt on every single nerve-ending. Then, just like that, Clarke’s sympathetic nervous system activates on cue and her legs are race-walking in a straight line towards a familiar room without turning around to acknowledge the Latina standing still from the irritating verbose sound of her own laughter erupting into all the open spaces of Trikru's entry.

Which leaves Clarke in her current predicament, pressed up against the door as if her weight can stop all the evil from creeping in on them. She doesn't move to turn the light on and when Lexa doesn't refocus her attention, slender fingers still making diligent headway towards probably another email detailing someone's incompetence, Clarke gets the brilliant idea of simply asking for what she needs. Blatant to the nine.

"Please let me stay. I promise I’ll be quiet. It's going to be a really awful day if I have to sit at my desk."

Lexa's facial expression affixes on something similar to slight agitation. Of course, Clarke remembers the strictly-professional-relationship talk and even in the pedantic nature of her entry, the abrupt and informal circumstance isn't lost to her. Her hands raise palm-forward to ease the next few words she tacts on in the haze of panic, "I wanted to make some actual headway on new logos. No infinity symbol this time."

It's the last sentence that causes the agitation to morph entirely into something a tad more remorseful. A subtle kicked-puppy look that makes Lexa not nearly as threatening as she was last week, because in less than four days, Clarke had become privy to the rare phenomenon of domestication that occurs when the brunette isn't carrying the expectations of an entire company on her fervent shoulders—at another time, Clarke's explicit use of an inappropriate adjective for a neutral body part would be placed under more scrutiny, but distraction would be just as inappropriate to categorize the current state of affairs. 

"You have the right to some privacy if you need it, Clarke. I'll leave my office in your care for today."

Nothing shutter-shocks her heart faster than that, so much so that her reply comes out as an abrupt whimper, "No! No, that's not what I meant. I just—I would appreciate being allowed to occupy your couch for a few hours."

A single raised eyebrow gives her adequate time to preempt for the rejection, but when Lexa merely nods and asks if she needs anything else, Clarke's mind suspends mid-air. She wasn't expecting that answer for some reason, especially not the ease of agreement without requiring further persuasion. It's jarring enough that Clarke ends up rigidly sinking in the couch cushions with more of a brick-like tendency than normal, which is a testament to the whole situation. Perhaps it's entirely in the polite way Lexa relaxes with her until it's clear they can probably work in a peaceful silence.

* * *

The pleasantries last for an entire two hours—more than she could have anticipated or even hoped for—before it gets immediately overshadowed by an ominous knock on the door. It’s not really ominous at all if Clarke considers the persistence of the repeated, impatient railing on the wood that makes her question what the door ever did to the person on the other side. She glances up from her comfortable position on the sofa, MacBook a little ajar on her lap and a bottle of alkaline water that gets delivered to the office daily open on the petite side table. Even self-confinement doesn't exclude Clarke from L.A. hospitality. A slight turn of her head reveals that Lexa hasn’t even shifted her gaze to meet the back of the barrier separating them from the rest of the world. In moments like these, her thoughts have a tendency to wonder whether concentration can mask a cacophony of noise, because Clarke's acutely aware of her habits. The ones where she's talking lowly to herself. The No-Clarke-You're-An-Idiot comments that escape from her lips before she even realizes she has said anything. In the last hundred and twenty minutes, Lexa hasn't commented on the outward self-deprecating jabs so perhaps it is safe to say that while in her element, Lexa is the uncontested queen of focus.

When the phone begins ringing, definitely Lexa's because hers is on silent, the smallest exhale precedes the cease of the rhythmic typing. "Clarke, as inappropriate as this sounds, we're going to hide. I have a lot of work to do and I don't have time to entertain Anya right now."

"What do you mean hide? Your office doesn't have much furniture in the first place."

Lexa rubs two fingers on her left temple, "We have my desk."

Dumbfounded Clarke is about to reverberate a laugh in the tiny, mind you still dark, office space until she feels one of Lexa's hands instantly cover her mouth and the other lulls her behind the monstrous mahogany piece that takes up most of the room. 

It's at this point does Clarke get the overwhelming realization that somehow she's even closer to Lexa than in the confines of a steel death trap. Cheeks borderline touching close as they hunch behind the desk and Clarke tries not to stare too much attention to the fact that their fingers are still intertwined. It’s not a complaint, more so an observation. A really delightful observation, because for someone that prides herself on typing a hundred and fifty words per minute, Lexa’s fingers are unbelievably soft. The darkness contorts the brunette’s usual air of power with something softer, almost fragile.

Problematic and stupid would be inaccurate accounts for the way Clarke wanted Lexa to just leave her hand where it was, because despite her talkative habits, she was quite content with the physical intimacy of being silenced in such a manner. The adult inside—it’s clear that Clarke is reverting back into an adolescent teen experiencing extreme infatuation—can probably settle with holding hands if she could just focus on something else. The sensory overload, however, provides no assistance in trying to distract this train of thought that is heading straight into the gutter. Injury is added to insult when Lexa has the audacity to look at her like that. The look that Clarke swears she has seen on the Discovery Channel’s documentaries of the African savanna. If she could just stop—

Lexa’s voice is entirely too calm when she says, “Clarke, I’m going to kiss you.”

She doesn’t manage to reply as her pupils dilate, her hands comb over with a slight sheen of sweat (sexy), and Clarke has to bite down on her bottom lip as Lexa leans forward to prevent something predatory from escaping. If Lexa is the cheetah in the safari, then Clarke is the willing warthog.

The softness of Lexa’s fingers is unmatched by the delicate touch of her lip, so much so that the loss of contact between their hands would have been regrettable if Clarke didn’t feel the sensation seconds later. The all-consuming junction of fingertips sprawling across her cheek. When Lexa turns her head for a better angle, she separates from any lingering self-control and returns in stride.

No one can fault her for capitalizing on the moment to sneak a hand under the baby blue blouse Lexa decided to wear under her fitted blazer. She is actually quite thankful it’s not green, but St. Patrick’s Day is the farthest thought in her mind when Lexa vocalizes an audible moan when Clarke’s nimble fingers make contact with her taunt stomach. The defined abs just about sends her into delirium. In their collective distracted state, neither of them registered the unhitching of the door and the careful footsteps inside.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" Anya’s voice sounds like nails on a chalk board. Though it is arguably better than Raven’s childish rhyming of “Clarke and Lexa crouching behind the desk. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” 

It takes Lexa two seconds—a prolonged period of time where she speaks volumes to Clarke in the little affectionate gleam around her irises—to clear her throat and state matter-of-factly, “Raven, I do happen to outrank both you and Anya. Although I would never abuse my power, it would be reasonable to reallocate some of the more tedious work in your general direction. Like reinstalling security protocols on all of the computers in the direct network.”

Raven mumbles out as she turns for the door, “Fuck. Run.”


	4. Pyromania & A Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke wants to set the library on fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's read this by now. New stuff soon.

You type variations of the same sentence over and over, methodically tapping delete on your Macbook for the sixth hundredth time in an hour. It’s a wonder how you have made it past page forty-six of your dissertation on the systematic polarization inherent in U.S. politics and the potential efficacy of ranked-based voting—at which point the exposition sounds more convoluted than it actually is. The creative high has long left your nimble fingers and now, you’re circling the drain of complete gridlock. Although, you take pride in the last flicker of hope; your phone hasn’t started clamoring for your attention yet so there is about twenty minutes to hone back into focus before it is all over.

You swivel the pen around your index and middle fingers before placing it down to deliberately crack each knuckle, twice because you’re double-jointed and you can.

“I’m going to set everything on fire,” The strained whisper hits you off-guard and you look up from the study corral to see a blonde flipping through a thick OChem textbook you vaguely remember from junior year, back when a clinical pursuit was what you thought you wanted to do with your life. There's a sheet of paper struggling to sustain life from beneath the weight of a clenched fist, except under the mess of frustration, you spot painfully meticulous notes, or at least, they would be if there wasn't a collection of doodles lining the margins.

"...Sorry. Didn't mean to say that out loud." The whisper contorts into an audible mumble, toned down only with a hint of embarrassment that rubs off as endearing and not laughable.

You lift a corner of your lips in a tiny smirk, because honestly, you remember your frantic undergrad days like they were yesterday. Now however, instead of drowning in final exams and short-burst essays, you have extensive research dissections on god-only knows.

You shift your weight until you’re leaning back just enough to leave the sanctuary of the desk separator, "I'm fully supportive of your cathartic destructive desires, but if you could hold off for another week so I can finish my thesis, I would be in your debt."

The chuckle upsets the relative silence on the study floor. Acutely inconsistent with its cracked pitch that it takes a moment for you to register it as laughter instead of a pained cry.

You adjust the temples of your glasses to pull it up your nose bridge and it affords you a slightly better view of OChem girl. The blonde hair you first noticed is tied back in a high ponytail, lips bridge between pouty and pursed, and her eyes. God, her eyes.

"I wouldn't want to kill your chances of finishing something so boring."

It rubs you the wrong way at first—who does OChem girl think she is to insult the last three years of dedication so blatantly with no regard—except when your brain tethers together the placid tone, there's no reason to be offended. Blood-shot pupils and the empty Starbucks cup also give you ample reason to take the words as lightly as possible.

You peer at your watch. The two dials inform you that your butt cheeks are about to be immortalized into the seat from the nine hours you have been sitting there with only a single bathroom break to refill your hydroflask. Some idle, harmless conversation couldn't hurt, considering you haven’t spoken to another person since this morning, when your best friend asked if you wanted to come home and shower before all the freshmen dropout.

"Out of coffee?" You want to regret the pointless dribble as soon as you say it. Small talk has always sounded deliriously useless in every encounter, especially so now that your entire lifeline exists in kindled relationships with your professors. OChem girl doesn't respond and instead opts to absently continue flipping pages; she's lost somewhere in organic synthesis and there's no judgement for the clueless look plastered on her face. You don’t even take offense, it's your cue to return to your work.

What surprises you though is the violent slamming of a textbook two minutes later that rouses you back from deep concentration. Another look from your cubicle and you end up meeting patient eyes that gleam so expectantly.

Then the exhaustion that outlines OChem girl's face fades for the four seconds it takes her to probe a question, "Would you like to have dinner with me?"

You deliberate, only long enough to wonder if you look as weary as OChem girl, "Sure."

You both could use the break.

* * *

When you both settle at a table in the cafeteria with your trays, you take note that OChem girl likes to get highly specific on her order of marginally subpar food; you’ve never met someone this explicit in their rice to protein ratio that has you feeling slightly guilty for the poor guy at Panda Express. You ended up dropping a dollar in the tip jar and gave him a sympathetic smile to apologize, but Bellamy, according to his name tag, just mouthed  _no problem_  like he's use to this kind of verbal abuse. Although for the life of you, the wink he sends your way a moment later leaves you considerably confused.  
OChem girl gives you a questioning look after you snap out of your blank stare, "Is something wrong?"

"Are you always this particular with your food?" You look down at your own styrofoam box of greasy chow mien and Beijing beef. 

It isn't supposed to come off as condescending, but when OChem girl just huffs out an extended sigh and rolls her eyes before she perfectly levels a piece of tofu on her wooden chopsticks, there's an obvious level of scrutiny tied to that dismissal.

You don’t even like Panda Express, but more importantly, you do not appreciate princesses that expect the world to revolve around them, so instinctively, you pick up your tray and stand abruptly.

"Look. It's been a long day for both of us and I don't know you, but I don't do the bitch demeanor. Good luck with your organic chemistry final."

You are about to turn to leave when OChem girl almost belches a reply to stop you dead in your tracks, "W-Wait!"  
Your feet lock in place and you just stand there, expecting a follow-up. However, when there is a solid minute of nothing, you sigh and turn, possibly to say the last bit of your peace.

OChem girl has her head buried between two hands that are delicately massaging her temples. "I'm sorry. My head is throbbing which isn't an excuse for my shitty behavior. I just—Can we start over?"

When her eyes lift to reveal a transparent sheen, you know you’re in trouble. A part of you, the functional adult half that has been self-reliant since you were sixteen, pushes for you to leave immediately. Because pretty girls on the verge of crying is the last thing you need this close to the end of your collegiate life, except your other half—the respectful side that wasn't raised by wolves and can empathize with being misunderstood—wins out. So, you lower yourself back into the plastic chair and sticks out your hand.

"Lexa. Currently doing a  _boring_  dissertation on the American political sphere."

OChem girl chews on her bottom lip, potentially running through the most appropriate reply for her second chance, before reaching out to reciprocate the truce, "Clarke. Currently being an asshole, because you don’t know how to behave around beautiful and intellectually superior people."

It would have been cheesy and flattering if you didn’t witness the level of ego you did minutes ago.

You find out that Clarke is friends with Bellamy and she rarely runs into him working, so she had jumped on the opportunity to pick on him a little.  _Well. Don’t you feel like the pretentious one now._

Clarke adds after the clarification, “I’m sorry. I promise I’m not the conniving bitch I have made myself out to be.”

Somehow, you find this whole situation impossibly hilarious, really, and curiosity is the first thought you pick in the clusterfuck of your rampant thoughts, “Clarke, do you even have an OChem final to study for?”

Clarke’s face flushes a considerably bright shade of red. Her hands knot into a sweaty mess before she slowly—the pace of a snail perhaps is an accurate comparison—exhale, “I’m actually an art major.”

The eruption of laughter is so automatic and immediate that you start choking on the spoonful of chow mien that is now lodged awkwardly at the base of your throat. You should feel regretful how the turn of events has, in a miraculous way, lead to your imminent death in the stupidest manner possible, but you can't even get over how ridiculous all of this was.   
Clarke’s hands are around your waist in a blink and of course, the liar knows the Heimlich maneuver. When you are done expelling the remnants of bad Chinese, you pick up your bag from the floor before looking straight into the pair of eyes watching you cautiously, “Clarke. I’m going to leave now. Let’s forget this encounter happened and I hope that when we meet again, it’s under better circumstances.”

There’s a flutter of hesitation that dwindles a beat later when Clarke replies with a shaky breath, “I’d like that.”

“For the record, you don’t have to put yourself through that horrid textbook for a reason to talk to me.”

* * *

You finish editing your dissertation six days into spelling out  _political parties_  for the ten...thousandth time. It makes your throat a little dry at the way you can't even conceptualize the degree of fraction within internal American democracy anymore—because deconstructing the last four presidential elections to inscrutable detail tends to do that to a person; thankfully, it doesn't matter because you finalize the citations to complete the sixty-four pages, partially embedded with your soul.

It's twelve in the afternoon and you absolutely cannot inhale another breath of artificially circulated library air, so you perform a full body stretch. Your hands raise towards the ceiling as the joints in your elbows click and a yawn escapes the creased corners of your mouth. When you’re all packed up, you acknowledge a desperate need for a cup of coffee to weather the drive home after essentially living on campus for the last month.

The Starbucks at the corner crawls at a turtle's pace in service, though in finishing something that has consumed the last year of your life, you feel like you have all the time in the world. So, you stand at the end of the line, lightly tapping the melody of  _begin again_  by Purity Ring onto your thigh as it plays from the overhead speaker.

You’re so absorbed in your own world that you don’t notice when familiar blonde curls creep behind you and a husky voice asks as casually as possible, “Am I allowed to set everything on fire now?”

Your reply comes in a low hum, fingers still following the beat of the song, “I actually just finished, so it’s all yours.”

“If I offer to pay for your coffee as a congratulation and as an apology, would you accept?”

“I would try not to judge how cheap you are, Miss. Griffin,” You don’t turn around even when your tone shifts into being entirely coy.

There’s a gentle snicker, “Ah. You did some research.”

“Traditionally, that’s what graduate students do at university, but yes, I’ll accept your offer.”

When they finally reach the front, the barista gives you a smile that looks more menacing than inviting, but before you can question it, Clarke interrupts, “Hey, O. I’ll take my usual and whatever Lexa wants.”

There's an overt clearing of a throat, “Excuse you, Miss. Dead to the World. Apparently, you had time to snuggle up to a grad student, but couldn’t make time for your goddamn friends?!”

“We’re not—” You start interjecting, but Octavia, as her nametag suggests, ignores you completely.

“Whatever. How did the OChem final go?”

“Good. Lexa really forced me to focus.”

Your face pales, “I thought that you said you didn’t have an OChem final?”

“Would be awfully idiotic if the chemistry major didn’t go to her chemistry final, wouldn’t it? Anyway, what can I get for you? Gustus is going to start chewing off my head if I don’t move this along.”

“I—What?”

Clarke smirks wholeheartedly and it makes your heart sink to the pit of your stomach, “She’ll have a grande drip.”

By the time the blonde has pulled you over to handoff, your jaw is still fighting the urge to drop. The only word that seems to formulate after the confusion is “Explain.”

“You jumped to conclusions. I only said I was an art major. It just coincidentally happens that double majoring exists and I managed to sweet-talk my advisor to allowing me to do chem and studio art. For the record, as horrible as that textbook was, it thankfully led me to you.”

“Your ego is insufferable.”

"You love it."

When you save Clarke's phone number, it is under  _OChem Girl _.__

* * *

* * *

Lexa and Clarke get emotional over a red sweater. Based entirely on [this](http://awvy.tumblr.com/post/156561240287/).

* * *

* * *

"I'm surprised you even get dates dressed like that." 

Clarke isn't casual when she slides into her seat next to you in the library. It had unintentionally become  _your_ spot, possessive and all. So much so that you didn't quite stop her from etching _Clexa_ in the tiny corner of her little study corral. The following suite of questions revealed that the creation was a quirky amalgam of both of your two names to which you only rolled yours eyes. However, it never lessened the accuracy of its existence.

Between busy days shuffling from your time spent in the wonderful chambers of a local legal clinic to shoveling mounts of preposterous law jargon into every crevice of your brain, you managed to stumble up three flights of stairs—you have never trusted the reliability of elevators—and casually sink into the seat in the far corner that, at this point, had her buttcheeks embedded into memory. Of course, nothing comes without a price and perhaps her neglect of personal style had been inherently the least of her problems among the vast sea of issues present on her mind at any given time.

So it might have been the only clean sweater you had left. So what that it was a worn dull red that screamed beloved night garment? So what that you could barely acknowledge time beyond the minuscule periods where you successfully manage to slip back into reality to rush to her next commitment, surely no one could judge the begrudging lack of hygiene as a fatal flaw? So what that you are using an equally vivid red baseball cap to disguise the inevitable persistence of bedhead? So what that her chucks are embarrassingly as ruined as her circadian rhythm? So what that her denim jeans are on their last dying breath?

"You look like a pizza boy," It's tastefully tacked on as she lets out a small sigh.

There is no point in denying the truth. Even Professor Kane had faulted her guilty of being "a bit neglectful of her own self-care." He said with as much tact as he could bare and it was clear he had carefully selected each word to avoid any disastrous retaliation of offense. Though his efforts had been in vain because when you arrived at your last class of the day, Dr. Indra Lexington only gave you a look in her periphery before stating with absolute disdain, "Lexa, get out. You will never show up to class like this again because in court, a judge would never give you a second glance. You would have lost the case without even uttering a single word."

In short, it's been a long day prior to Clarke's blatant statement of the obvious.

"Aw, don't look so grim," You don’t meet Clarke's eyes, instead she affixes her gaze at the peeling wood of her little cubby-desk. Was it yours? Would it be rude to claim ownership to a place of public domain if you have occupied it for a better portion of the last few years? In your defense, the last few years is realistically the depth of your memory right now as your brain is forcefully trying to accommodate for a database of legal information. "I bet a lot of people have the sexy pizza delivery girl fantasy."

Perhaps the sarcasm seeping playfully out of Clarke's lips should bare less weight, but it strikes some chord in your dwindling pride when you hear it said so characteristically. You apparently look like some idiot that delivers pizzas and not remotely near the Philip J. Fry-tier of memorable. There's no time-warp to save your withering pride.

Clarke lightly nudges you in the shoulder, "C'mon. It was just a joke."

Your eyes snap to attention when slender fingers graze the cotton hem of the god-forsaken fabric that somehow survived an adolescence of washes. Your parents’ hopeful eyes as you open the gift with delicate fingers even at the mean age of twelve. The summer camp kids laughing at you for wearing a sweater in mid-July heat. A boy named Lincoln in middle school smiling as he pulls at his replica red cotton pull-over. Anya stoically acknowledging how much the color reminds her of the Etch-A-Sketch they played with together. You were wearing it then too, when the same people that brought you into this world abruptly left it.

It never even hit you that you had tugged this out of the corner of your closet then. Pulling it over your head in a discombobulated haze of going about your day because you knew, without hesitation, that every day for the last six months had ended in a wondrously similar way: either with the physical presence of Clarke Griffin or her gentle voice lulling you into the realm of dreamers.

You are hardly as ignorant as you let yourself believe—as much as you allow herself to wallow in denial—because it would be perfectly easy to ignore the ever-present mark a particular blonde senior had made in your life in such a relatively short span of time. It is bridging thirteen months since you had met Clarke Griffin and only in the last few weeks did you finally drop OChem girl as Clarke's nickname at her persistence. You pull a bit to stretch your right sleeve as you coil your fingers to rub at the material. The inevitable tearing that rips into your eardrums doesn't seem to faze you as much as you expected, because it was only a matter of time.

Though you will admit the beads of bewilderment that stretch across her expression as Clarke reaches for the sleeve with a small frown.

"Please don't tear it. I like it. No one can pull off stoic and disheveled better than you." Clarke's voice is merely a small whisper at first that it sends a sharp pain down your spine. It's only then that you realize you haven't spoken a single word yet. Your silence almost feels polarizing, that perhaps endless hours on the phone together and late nights huddled in the same corner would ignite some innate worry in the absence of your low voice urging Clarke to get some sleep before a certain someone stuck into Global Relations a half an hour later into the lecture.

Instead, you get to relish in the feeling of gentle fingertips turning her hand over, palm up, as a small stitching needle is inserted into the torn seam. Pre-Med looks good on artistic-bound Clarke. Only because the brilliant embodiment before you are far more capable than even you yourself. Clarke is intellect that strikes symbiosis between thoughtfulness and critique. Clarke is boundless ambition encompassed in an hourglass frame. Clarke is stir-crazy and excitable, adventurous to her very core. It had all been disguised under a fortified wall that only began crumbling under gradual small prods, experimental at first until courage shielded you from any lingering fear.

A brilliant realization washes over you in a wave. The feeling skates down your body like a torrent, unstoppable and unrelenting. It cripples your heartbeat and fractures your breath into short gasps. You definitely aren’t hyperventilating but Clarke still gives you a pained look of concern like you are. It takes about the last bit of your willpower to collect your breathing before you catch a pair of expectant ocean-born irises.

When it comes out more shaky than coherent, you know Clarke will forgive you. She has to because you have never verbalized the words _'I love you'_ before that it is warranted for your lower lip to be quivering as much as it does. Your ears betray you at the last second and echo a stable ring until you feel like your hearing is altogether gone. Disappeared before you could even hear Clarke's reply because your eyes trace the way the blonde's lips move. Clarke's breath is warm on your face as the senior leans forward to envelope you in an embrace that it causes your body to go rigid from shock.

The hug is far too tight to be anything beyond a sympathetic apology hug. The let's-still-be-friends hug. The platonic equalizer to your pathetic existence as a Green Day song starts playing in the background. It's definitely  _Boulevard of Broken Dreams_  because nothing speaks louder than Billie Joe Armstrong serenading you a ballad about life's one undeniable truth: you can't have everything.

You only manage to shut your eyes before a tear streaks down your face, self-control diminishing under the weight of the body clinging so tightly onto you. You’re so absorbed in regulating your breathing that it takes you an additional moment to register the soft thumb that swipes across your cheek.

Then it feels like the vacuum of space escapes your ears all at once. It's abrasive to a point that you have to lower your head into the crook of Clarke's neck to ground yourself in something tangible. Grasping tightly onto someone real.

"I love you too," It's not whispered nor is it declared. Clarke states it matter-of-factly, like she's known this entire time.

The tears that trail along to her jawline don't ease your ability to form coherent sentences, so when you whimper, you are surprised that anything came out at all, "Clarke, we should talk about your delivery pizza girl fantasies."

There is no hesitation in the retort, "Lexa. It's pizza delivery girl."

* * *

* * *

Lexa and Clarke need context while they wade through LA traffic.

* * *

* * *

Los Angeles is a mesmerizing city. The corporate juggernaut shares his side of the sidewalk with the impoverished man. The indie taco dive inhabits the same corner as the alkaline water dispensary. The brick and mortar of yesteryear scatters along the densification of the city. You have always found it breathtaking. 

The subtle way the urbanization doesn't strip certain corners of L.A. of its signature charm or that the vegan frozen yogurt place will still be there tomorrow because  _good_  food is upheld and defended on the reinforced appetites of the natives. LACMA stands as the beacon of hipster photo-ops and the posh storefronts at The Grove bare no contest to the farmer market maze at its back.

However, even after over six years of local inhabitation, you have found no headway in reconciling the notorious, clusterfuck known as the Southern California freeway system. An awful, headache-inducing de-facto snippet that just trails along any romanticizing of L.A. as a hooded footnote. No one puts the congestion detail in the appendix. It's not small enough to hide at the back of the book. No. It's truly one of the first visceral experiences that begins as soon as you step out of artificially circulated LAX air. Even  _La La Land_  opened with a musical note on the intensity of standstill traffic.

Lexa swerves the Mercedes halfway into the shoulder lane; it’s smooth enough that it hardly feels like a shift at all. The grace that precedes everything your girlfriend does bares no challenge to how easily and effortlessly she can transition from the leading civil litigation attorney on the West Coast to a relaxed koala bear. It's entirely a testament to the unbelievable retention of patience and will.

A motorcycle blazes past you, lane splitting like it’s a sin, and on the days when you aren’t particularly attached to sustaining your livelihood, you can fabricate leather-clad Lexa zipping past all of the traffic on a Ducati SuperSport—sometimes you even allow yourself a brief moment to imagine being on the back, wind-torn arms wrapping around taunt stomach muscles, but the daydream always ends in the same excruciating manner (usually with your own death)—and it’s easy to surmise why you know you can’t have nice things. A siren offsets the normal sounds of congestion, almost eating it up whole when it changes from the usual rush hour expectation to idiot-induced mediocrity. 

You turn your head to face center focus and have to take a moment appreciate that it has been four years since you and Lexa started dating.

You slide the back of your index finger against the delicate hand on the stick shift, “One of the things...” When your fingertip grazes Lexa’s forearm, the tiny surge of electricity cements any lingering self-restraint. “...I adore about you is how quickly you can shift from zero to a hundred.”

The context: your multi-faceted girlfriend whose ability to adjust to her environment is unmatched.

"Clarke, we're in traffic. It takes at least a few seconds to upshift that much."

The context: lost.

A lowly grunt proceeds an exaggerated eye roll, one you know Lexa manages to see in her periphery, “You're going to make the worst mom one day."

The smile that spreads across your girlfriend's face is an infectious little grin that is seemingly transfixed there permanently nowadays. Not that you’re complaining. It's not a sight you could ever get tired of.

There’s an abrupt honk behind you, an agitated Californian-born that finds comfort in obnoxious displays of aggression and who has exhausted his patience for the two-car space between your current cruise and the backend bumper of the Toyota in front of you. You barely manage to lean back after craning your head to flip him the bird.

Lexa’s smile never falters, even when the blaring horn interrupts both of you mid-conversation, “Are you going to have time for me when you're partnered?" You let a soft laugh invade the orchestrated silence of the makeshift highway hell.

The limited milliseconds committed to breathing are the only semblance of expected human response times, because Lexa answers faster than her lightning rebuttals in court. One of the most terrifying feats to witness is the change to attorney Lexa Woods and honestly if it didn’t make for insane foreplay, you have serious doubts you would want to see that side of her in casual, non-sexual settings. But then the koala bear says something like, "You know I cannot possibly take my eyes off you for longer than an hour without feeling homesick” and it just nullifies any remaining thought that that side of each other would ever coexist. You mean, no one in their right mind would analyze your dynamic and class Lexa as a top.

You draw your hand across a perfect plane of smooth skin until you’re nearing defined collarbones. The same sharp and notable ones you’re convinced slaughtered the UCLA softball team when Lexa substituted as their assistant coach during a spring semester, “You weren't this sappy in college.”

“I wasn’t. Up until the final months of my thesis. This OChem major threatened to burn down the library.”

You prop your elbow on the car windowsill as your voice toys on mock offense, “Who would dare threaten to vandalize school property? I hope she got what she deserved.”

The context: Your outburst of irrationality at six in the evening is only partially justified by the previous four hours of studying for your OChem final.

“I’d like to think so,” You don’t have to look over to see the amusement ghosting in Lexa’s tone.

The context:  _ding_.

“Are we meeting Raven and Luna for dinner?”

You flex your head to the side, cracking a stubborn little knot. “I'm not sure. She hasn't called or texted me all morning. O hasn't heard from her either.”

“They got engaged, Clarke.”

“And? If we got engaged, I would make it a point to flaunt my beautiful fiancé.” 

“When.”

The context: Your undergraduate passive etching of Clexa into the study corral bares no contest to the fact that Lexa wholeheartedly believes in soulmates. Or at least your personal intertwined destiny.

“What? What do you mean?”

The context: lost.

Lexa shifts to interlock your fingers before she moves the back of your hand to her lips. A feather-light kiss proceeds a soft hum. “When we get engaged, Clarke, you can show me off.”

You can't help but imitate one of Lexa’s closed-mouth smiles, “Aren't you being a little presumptuous? Are you sure I’m going to say yes?”

The Mercedes begins picking up speed as traffic disperses, accelerating until they taper off at the sixty-five-mile speed limit. All the surrounding cars breeze past you to no one’s surprise. Lexa is a conscientious driver, a rare and dying breed in Southern California.

“I don't take you for a masochist.”

The context: You are, in fact, madly in love with your girlfriend.

“I'm not. I just think law school has gotten a little over your head, sweetheart.”

The context:  _ding_.

Lexa says nothing for half a minute, the silence only managing to get swallowed by your childlike Kim Possible ringtone. There has been judgment, not overtly by Lexa though the slight half-smirk every time your phone goes off is telling enough. You don't even look at the caller ID when you pick up.

Loud sounds of rustling amplify through the car until you give up and click it to speakerphone. It takes a minute before the iconic “Clarkie! I'm getting married!” enters the confined space.

“Raven. Lex is in the car with me; say hi to Luna for us.”

There's mumbling in the background that gets muffled by some distance, then another voice replies, “Hey.”

“I realize you two are celebrating, but it's four in the evening and Raven sounds not all together there.”

“She's not drunk. I didn't let her near alcohol after what happened on my birthday.”

Raven’s voice registers further back, like she's on the other side of the bed, “I’m not drunk on alcohol, but I did drink a lot of—”

The context: Luna.

When Raven stops mid-confession, probably gagged before she could say anything thoroughly offensive, you only manage to balance your forehead against your right hand. You make a half-stitched effort of minimizing the secondhand embarrassment though it's only expected.

“What Raven meant to say is that she is sober.”

Lexa finally chimes in, “Are you sure?”

The context: ignored. 

Luna’s chuckle would be infectious if it compared to the first time you were privy to the sound of Lexa’s addictive laughter, a sound you only finally heard on the fourth date when your body almost slammed into a revolving glass door.

“Raven did something. I'm trying to weigh out the best course of action.”

The context: ???

You don't resist shaking your head as a torrent of Raven Reyes appropriate ideas invade your overactive imagination, “Can we help?”

“Shhhh!” The speaker gets muffled before Raven returns, direct and loud, “Gotta go. Talk to the beautiful unengaged couple later!” 

You flatly say when the line dies, “I didn't realize getting engaged makes you hypersensitive and irrational.”

The context: lost in the abyss.

“I don't believe you.”

“You don't believe me.”

“I don't. You don't think I notice when you glaze over the wedding magazines every time we walk through Barnes and Noble or the way you’ll curl the hem of any white dress for five seconds longer than the others in Nordstrom Rack or when you think you're coy with your show preferences by switching back to anything other than Say Yes to the Dress whenever I walk in.”

The context: Lexa is just as infatuated with you.

You play dumb, because it’s not a surprise Lexa is observant, especially when you have not been subtle. “What do you mean?”

The context: _denied_.

Before Lexa has a chance to respond, a matte black BMW m5 blazes past you in the lane to the right and it would have been any other asshole beemer driver if the car didn't cut off your Mercedes before proceeding to aggressively chance brake checking. The inherent lack of cars around you adds injury to insult, but Lexa doesn't bare it any mind when she signals to change to carpool.

“What a fucking asshole,” You mutter.

Your expectations are met when the BMW swivels to cut you off again, signalless and speeding up for no other purpose than to overlap your car. 

Lexa does the smallest of exhales. It's not noticeable if you weren't purposefully looking for it, but you have trained yourself to read Lexa’s micro-expressions on cue. That distinct exhale preludes dangerous agitation that really only two types of people ever bear witness to: you when you’re being an asshole and asshole defense attorneys that know they have no case but are drawing it out regardless. 

“Hey, Lex, let’s just get off the freeway and take local. The sunset looks really nice.” You plead.

The beemer carelessly brakes again and Lexa’s mossy green eyes light up with fire. 

“Clarke, we have a reservation to make. Let me handle this.”

The context: BMW is about to be eaten alive.

It should be noted that your girlfriend never learns anything with half the effort, including driving stick. She does one more subtle inhale and seals the BMW’s fate.

Your fingers curl into the leather seat as the monstrous weight of the car easily lurches to fourth gear. Lexa catches the momentum to shift out of carpool and just before BMW can cut you back off, Lexa is already passing it in the S class.

When you speed down the highway, allowing the beemer to fade entirely out of view, you check your phone to see a text from Raven.

 _Thanks for helping with the test drive. Doesn't seem like this car is for me._  
    
The context: BMW Asshole was Raven.

“It was Raven.”

“I know.”

The context:  _ding_.

* * *

* * *

Lexa is late to her own wedding.

* * *

* * *

You're late and Lexa Woods has never been late in her entire life. The sixteenth birthday party incident with the freeway closure and escaped convict notwithstanding. Your mind has a marvelous way of conjuring up the most fantastical scenarios that you sometimes think it was wrong to pursue law at all. Theater would have provided a plausible avenue for the ground-swallowing-you-whole likelihood that's running through your head at ten miles per minute. 

Your seat belt is straining your back against the seat of an A6 Audi that you know is an odd choice for an Uber. Only in Europe, you swear. You run down what Clarke’s going to say when you get there, nevertheless the endless slew of profanity you have in store for you if she ever picks up the phone. The heavens, you think, have probably graced you with the fifteen minute respite before hell will be rained on you. Because you're late. You're late for your own wedding.

It's automatic to run through your day and nitpick the flaws. You hate that it's one of your more natural habits even if no one else knows. You're good at internalizing; you always have been. Clarke knows it too. She’s memorized that look you have when your eyebrows crease just a fraction of a degree and your bottom lip gets abused between your teeth. Just like it is now. If Clarke was next to you, she would smooth her thumb across the tender skin and give you the most adoring look. The look that makes your stomach knot a million times over.

The firm has been very supportive of your absence so far and you have been appreciative till the end. Miraculously, it took until today for something to be brought directly to your attention. It makes sense when a majority of the partners are wedged in a dozen first class seats to see, well, you. You in a fitted grey suit that Clarke said brings out the intensity of your mossy eyes. You next to the most gorgeous woman in the entire world. You sharing your vows with the love of your life. It's mostly your fault. Destination weddings are hardly practical. 

Your secretary belts out a million apologies when she called you that morning regarding the Warren case. The case with the manslaughter-self defense charge that made it to your desk a few days before you decided to pop the question. You swore your undivided attention when word got around of your engagement and even the senior partners have been impressed with your diligence despite the personal circumstances. It happens that you had to finalize the hearing and reaffirm a character witness today over the phone. 

You end up delegating a lot of last minute wedding prep to Anya who’s walking you down the aisle and some to Lincoln while you calmed down the client’s terrified half-sister. She finally lets you go after an hour of interrogation and if it wasn't for your astute nature, you might have ended the call on a sour note. A tiny peg at how it's your wedding day. A self-insert on how the trial was over three weeks away and you have been preparing for months. A considerate flat statement on the merit of patience and good will. 

You don't say any of those things. Instead, you remember when Clarke spent a solid twenty minutes laughing that one time on a road trip to the Grand Canyon. You had just pulled out of a middle-of-nowhere diner when a motorcyclist grazes the side of your car without a second thought. Strong bravado and hotshot attitude seemed to ooze like a plague in the rear view mirror. You had assured Clarke that you could handle it and honestly, both of you were on the travelling high. She shook your hand on the bet and gave you a peck with an amused, ‘Go get him tiger.’ 

Your calm demeanor gets you through the entire conversation with Jason from Orlando without any issues. Actually, he ended up asking for legal advice when he found out you were a big league attorney and dutifully apologized for the damages. You both exchange numbers and insurance, but he promises to pay for damages, clipping on a surly, ‘If you're ever in Orlando, sweetcheeks, give me a call.’ You went back into the car a bit unnerved and Clarke broke into a fit of uncontainable laughter. It's okay though, because you won the bet.

Jasper the Uber driver tries to make pleasant conversation when you put your phone down for two seconds to breathe.

“Rough day?”

You dawn one of your signature smiles, “It might be the best of my life.”

Jasper perks an eyebrow at the sentiment, but it only eggs you on.

The speech has been rehearsed a thousand times in your head. “I'm having a really special date tonight with this girl I've been in love with for a while.”

His eyes flick to the GPS and they narrow in confusion, “At the beach?”

“She's a bit unethical. We didn't get along at all when we first met.”

“I don't take you for the compromising type.”

You have to laugh at that, because it's been so long since you were the rigid version of your former self. The half-conscious grad student that drank too much coffee and slept too little. The thesis-absorbed twenty-three year old that thought life existed entirely in academia. The one that went through life not completely encompassed by love and without the awareness of the addiction of reciprocation. The Lexa that didn't know Clarke.

It takes a moment, a long breath of time in which you can only make out the sound of your own laughter and the throngs of passing cars before you can start on the little interlude that was meeting Clarke Griffin. 

Nothing stops your gush of detail, not even Clarke if she was here now, trying desperately to get you to stop embarrassing her. You would never dream of sparing the arsonist tendencies that brought both of you together. The fated OChem textbook that caught your attention. Her worn finals stricken face. The bizarre exchange at Panda Express that led to you telling her off her high horse. Then your cheeks flush when you add the detail of the misunderstanding, because Bellamy was Clarke’s friend after all.

The sunlight creeps into the car as you finally break into view of the coast. It's one of those gradual moments when you can see the spray of solar energy transform the landscape. The cliff side ahead gives off this mystic edge that's almost impossible to glance past when you compare it to the cascading waves below. It's surreal. You give a tentative look at Jasper before you lower your tinted window and allow the sunlight to wash over your chestnut curls that might or might not be getting ruined by the seaside breeze. You can imagine Clarke’s vaguely disappointed but amused expression so clearly. ‘Babe, what happened to your hair?’ 

“It sounds like your girl has some game.”

You give him a wide smirk, “You have no idea.”

The story continues as he drives down the coastline at a faster than usual pace. The twenty euros you slipped him when you entered seems to be paying off. You tell him about the Starbucks incident, inserting the self-deprecating jab at your own sense of incompetence. Jasper lets out a rough chuckle when you get to the bit where Clarke outwitted you while buying you coffee.

Then your first date gets glossed over, because it didn't really count. When she called you over to ‘study’, your mind had performed an idiotic translation to date and somehow, she only found your bottle of wine and anxious face endearing when she opened the door with pencil-bunned hair and sweatpants.

Your real first date had been a homemade dinner which surprised you, only because your culinary thumb was about as non-existent as your interest in men, but Clarke turned out to be an amazing chef. You tried not to overwhelm her with compliments on the best chicken risotto you had ever had in your entire life. However, your favorite part of the night was when Clarke tried to surprise you with really nice champagne. You didn’t chastise her for spending too much money on a bottle of Cristal, because she wanted to celebrate the shiny new degree under your belt. The MBA that you spent a little longer on than you should have. It took about every ounce of willpower not to collapse into laughter when Clarke had missed the cork entirely, hit her hand, and dropped the three hundred dollar bottle on the floor. 

Your composure had been your reciprocation to her amazing cooking. That and your need for a workout routine. You manage to lift her into your arms in one fluid motion, bridal style, to carry into your car. The end of the night had been stitches in an emergency room at one in the morning and you honestly couldn't have asked for a better date.

The Audi finally pulls up to the roundabout that gives entrance to the wedding. You didn't skimp on reserving a good chunk of the Bueu coast to your special day. Your gentle voice leads him through the little maze until you meet the restricted section and you hop out after telling him that there's an open bar and some appetizers if he's interested. Your finger points to the allocated parking area before you disappear off to the dressing room, giving a quick yell over your shoulder to thank him. 

Your phone tells you that you're surprisingly not super late. Not super super late anyway. Anya pierces you with a sharp stare when she asks, “Where have you been?”

You think today is the best day to practice your sarcastic tongue. To emulate Clarke to the best of your ability. “Bonding with Jasper the Uber driver. He's nice. American, has been in Spain for a little while.”

Anya isn't laughing, which is fine. You can laugh enough for the both of you. She just shakes her head as she unzips your suit.

When you're dressed, you prod the question that’s been weighing on your mind the entire drive over, “How mad is she?”

“I'm going to go with mildly more irritated than she was at Raven and Luna’s wedding,” Your best friend adds a devilish grin to her statement and it makes your stomach turn over.

Clarke had been livid when Raven and Luna finally tied the knot, only because the former had been a mess of nerves while the latter was getting slight cold feet. You were assigned to guard Luna and make sure she didn't do anything moronic like leave, while Clarke attempted to calm down an erratic Raven. The wedding did finally happen, almost two hours after it's designated time and with a crowd of restless guests. She had rested her head on your shoulder that night and said, ‘We better not be that much trouble when we get married.’

And here you are, uncomfortably late. By no means two hours late, but irresponsibly past the safety gap that has been part of your natural tendency. Anya runs a brush through your hair while you start on your makeup. You can make out Raven’s and O’s distinct voices next door, but the distance prevents you from gauging the severity of Clarke’s wrath. The lip biting is happening again and you don't remember the last time beyond today that you even did it. Your mental train of thought is halted by a soft knock on the door.

Luna graces you with something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue in the form of her grandmother’s necklace. The sapphire embedded one with the new silver chain. It's honestly very considerate, because your history with Luna is complicated.

“Ready?” Anya asks in that voice she reserves for moments where it matters. Like this one.

Your smile is enough of an answer that she leads you past the preparation area to the open gallery that gives way to the arch. You hear the delicate violin in the background from the mini orchestra. The same one you defended in a legal proceeding regarding copyright claim and had forever had their appreciation. Then all you can make out is the hundreds of faces turning to give you their undivided attention as you walk down the white strip.

The breeze has settled down and the sunset provides the perfect silhouette for what you have mentally prepared yourself for since that hopeful day in the library. When you vocalized your love for Clarke out loud and it had been pure luck that she reciprocated your feelings in stride. Your red sweater had soaked up a majority of your tears that day, even as the sleeve tore. You don't fault Clarke for using the wrong needle in the heat of the moment to restitch the ripped seam. If anything, you were grateful that she cared for something as silly as your sweater at all.

You smile graciously to Lincoln when you reach the top of the arch. Perhaps you're thankful he showed you his ministry attire beforehand, so the surge of humor gets sated at the back of your throat. You lean in and whisper in your most professional tone of voice, because you can't help it. “You look quite dashing.”

He doesn't feign offense, instead he just squeezes your arm lightly before the instrumental for the bridal procession begins and all of your thoughts shift back to their original state. To the single person you don't think you could live without. To your better half that you know you couldn't live without.

You're not even exaggerating. During Clarke’s residency at UCLA Medical and four years into the relationship, the intern lifestyle only granted you a few hours each week together. And while Lexa Woods has never been labeled as a dependent individual, you found yourself falling into the routine habits of domestication. It started with subtle little initiations like when you would turn on brainless television after a long day, asking out loud whether she wanted to watch _Chopped_ instead, only to be met with an empty and silent apartment. Or when you were grocery shopping and wanted to ask her if she would make you that dish you really liked, the chicken risotto, but then reality would wash over like a cloud and you would put the ingredients back. It manifested in bigger decisions to: when you landed the job at the big law firm you always wanted to work for and you had to calculate her restlessness in your head to gauge whether it was worth interrupting her sleep.

That year had strained your relationship in an indescribable way. Lodging a heavy anchor to the quick progress both of you had made and you knew it was mostly your fault. You had internalized too much, as usual. Compartmentalized your loneliness with justification, because Clarke deserved everything she wanted. You didn't tell her about the reemerging nightmares of your parents’ death that had disappeared after you had moved in together only to come back in her absence. Or the happy face you dawned when someone at the old firm asked where she was. It had taken a particularly bad verdict and a bottle of whiskey for you to finally tell her. And god, you could never forget how much she cried that night.

You thanked the heaven and stars when your drunken stupor resulted in a grave re-directioning of your dynamic. Of the way both of you related to each other. You both set days for scheduled dates that you and Clarke never missed. Even after you were promoted to partner and Clarke was well into her residency. You always kissed each other goodnight then and she had taken you on a short vacation to Venice after her internship to knock some sense into your head. 

Her eyes had reflected like crystal moonlight as she softly whispered, ‘Lexa, I love you so much and I know it's hard, but you need to talk to me when you're not okay.’

The memory crystallizes as a happy one, entirely, because Clarke was, is, and will be here for you. She adores the way your sense of urgency only gets thwarted when her shirt reveals a little too much cleavage. She finds your obsession with collecting secondhand copies of _Little Women_ endearing, because you like reading all the small notes that get left on the inside cover. She craves your addictive laughter, because she says the sound calms her accelerated thoughts every time. 

This avalanche stops midair when you finally get to see her in the white dress you both picked out together. Strapless and lace in just the right places. You can't concentrate on her maids of honor as they pass by you with knowing grins. No. Not when you think Michelangelo’s last masterpiece was casting Clarke Griffin. 

She has the same look on as the confession eight years ago in the library and you return your most cherished half-grin, the one saved only for her. Her fingers intertwine with your outstretched hand when she's close enough and you have to take in a sharp inhale to calm your racing heart.

Before Lincoln starts the ceremony, Clarke wastes no time to lean in and whisper in your ear. Her hot breath stalling your ability to focus, “Just so you know, we’re going to have a very heated conversation tonight about the merits of being on time…” She allows a small breath, “In bed.”

And just like that you think your prided sense of composure is lost. You have to force your attention when Lincoln starts looking between you two, his lips moving, but all you can recognize is the sound of Clarke’s gradual respiration and her husky laugh when, you assume, Lincoln makes a playful joke. You know you're having a hard time when Clarke squeezes your fingertips and gives you the eye glance, before it settles that you have absolutely no idea what Lincoln said.

You go with cheesy, because if anyone here today is allowed to be cheesy, it's you. “I’m sorry, Linc. Could you repeat the question? I got lost in Clarke’s eyes.”

You hear a chorus of aww's sound among a collective string of chuckles. 

An endearing smile precedes his answer, “I asked if you wanted to start with your vows first, Lexa.”

You nod, because allowing Clarke’s words to linger on everyone’s mind will be infinitely more special; her artistic nature has never left, even when she decided to pursue medicine.

Your body turns fully to face the girl of your dreams, “Clarke, I wanted to share with you one of my favorite memories. I think it encapsulates what we mean to each other quite well. It starts with someone revealing their love for fire in a library at 5 o’clock in the evening, sleep-deprived and running on Starbucks coffee.”

She just shakes her head at you, but doesn't interrupt.


End file.
